THE TIGER SAGA

It's been a while since I put pen to paper (or finger to screen) about flying. And considering my rollercoaster career as a helicopter pilot-equal parts Top Gun and Mr. Bean—I thought it a crime not to share some recent escapades from the wild blue yonder.

- GEORGE TONKING

You know how a classic joke starts with a priest, a rabbi and a nun walking into a bar? Well, I figure a proper aviation story should kick off just as absurdly. Something like: “A Robbie, a Mooney, and a Tiger Moth fly onto a farm...” It's not quite that, but stay with me...

The day began ordinarily enough. I was out on patrol in my beloved, slightly wheezy Robinson R44—my trusty-rusty chopper that rattles more than a maraca in a mariachi band. Since it was school holidays and solo flying can get about as lonely as a Cessna parked at a fuel strike, I invited my son Ethan to ride along in the back seat for a day out with Dad.

Riding shotgun was Carin, a young commercial pilot from Sweden. We called her the “Stockholm Bombshell” not just because she looked like she'd stepped off the set of a Scandinavian action movie, but because her wit had more bite than an angry Ratel. A fierce blonde with a big laugh and a bigger passion for rotorcraft, she'd joined us to log some operational time and liven up the heliport with her Nordic charm.

AVIATION IN SOUTH AFRICA: WHERE DREAMS NEED EXTRA FUEL

To paint the backdrop: general aviation in South Africa isn't what it used to be. Once a bustling community of Cessnas, Beechcraft, and Bells buzzing over the bushveld, it's now more of a sepia-toned postcard of the glory days—faded by rising fuel costs, regulatory red tape and an economy that's been driven like a rental car with no deposit.